


New Things

by theheadandthekin



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Oral Sex, Romance, Smut, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-03-18 18:38:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3579756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheadandthekin/pseuds/theheadandthekin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the weeks following Katrina’s death, Ichabod decides some changes are in order. He enlists Jenny for help. Post-Tempus Fugit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Sleepy Hollow fic. I had to do it.

_Dear Miss Jenny – I am in need of your assistance._

_ >>What’s up?_

_It’s time._

_ >>???_

_I will explain. I am at the cabin. Please call at your convenience._

_ >>K see you at 3?_

* * *

 

When Jenny arrived at Corbin’s cabin, she found Ichabod pacing between the kitchen and the dining table, lost in anxious thought.

“Crane?”

“My apologies for not answering the door, Miss Jenny. Thank you for coming over.”

“Yeah,” Jenny ventured with just a hint of the wariness she felt, “I wasn’t sure what you meant by those cryptic texts.”

He huffed and rolled his eyes. “We talked about this _before._ ”

“Oh? Well some of us don’t have perfect memories.”

“You told me last year that if I needed any assistance in ‘transitioning’ to this century that your sister was unable to provide, you would come to my aid.”

Jenny was pretty sure she’d made the comment in jest, but he was clearly in earnest now. With a look that Jenny could only have described as “sheepish,” Ichabod retrieved his iPad from the dining table and handed it over.

The open tabs told the whole story. GQ—of all things. Several fashion blogs. _Askmen._ Okay, he needed an intervention.

“I must enter the modern era—fully and completely. I have clung to the past for far too long, and if I am going to court your sister, I must be able to do so without appearing in a way that will make her uncomfortable and remind her—”

“Whoa, whoa. _Back that up_.”

Instead he barreled on.

“Your sister deserves someone who is fully committed to the present time. This,” Ichabod plucked at the sleeve of his coat, “only serves to remind her that I am a lost puppy, needing her _care_.”

He paused; Jenny knew more of this speech was coming. He must have been working himself up for days about this idea. She filed away the “court your sister” comment for later.

“I must _evolve_ to our new circumstances. Like those finches of Sir Charles Darwin.”

“Made it to _The Origins of Species,_ have you?”

“I am a man of science and learning, Miss Jenny.” He fidgeted again before continuing, belying his small smirk—which faded quickly, “I can’t hold onto the past any longer. Katrina is gone. My son is gone. I thought I could recreate the world I knew here, but I realize now that was folly.”

“And you think my sister pities you?”

“Yes. She must. We’ve gone days now without seeing one another. I do not believe she knows what to do with me after ....”

“Look, Crane, you know Abbie’s like that. You don’t need to change for her. Really. You can just call her.”

 “As long as I am a _pet_ , a _curiosity,_ a _time traveler,_ ”he bit out the words, “A man in _costume,_ we cannot move forward as true equals.”

 Jenny did her best to listen. She really did. But Crane was full of absolute shit. Abbie may have had odd habits of showing her affection, but Jenny knew all the signs. And then there was the whole line of nonsense with “Witness duty” and “no dating at the end of world” that her sister had fed her. It’d been almost two years; Abbie gave no fucks about Crane’s breeches. Except that she obviously wanted to get in them.

_Both_ of them were full of shit.

“She doesn’t care. I swear. You’re you.”

“ _Please._ ”

She badly wanted to tell him just to man up, go over to Abbie’s house, and fuck her senseless, because he’d be welcome. Instead, she relented.

“Go find that bag of new clothes Abbie bought you that I _know_ you have stuffed away somewhere. We’ll go from there.”

* * *

In the waiting area, Jenny settled in with the salon’s copy of _Vanity Fair._ She tried her damnedest to concentrate on a profile of Chirlane McCray, but kept chuckling to herself as the staff cooed over Crane.

The magazine a completely lost cause, she pulled out her phone.

_Hey! Where are you?_

_ >> …_

Jenny glanced over at Crane and the fawning stylist. He was gesturing toward the heat styling tools, and clearly “inquiring” about their uses. And the poor woman was obviously falling hook, line, and sinker for his apparent flirting. Jenny just shook her head.

_Are you home?_

_> >Yeah, sorry. Just got home from yoga_

_I have something for you_

_Will you be around in about an hour?_

_> >Got a hot date with wine takeout and Frank Underwood_

_Weak_

_Alright see you soon_

That the “something” was an Ichabod Crane in _jeans_ and a _sweater_ and a _new haircut_ and a _new mission_ was just going to be a surprise. And it would definitely be better than cold noodles and Kevin Spacey.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A one-shot becomes ... not a one-shot.

It took far longer than necessary to get Crane away from the staff, away from the mirror, out of the salon, and into the car. Jenny finally had to remind him that if he really needed to continue preening, he could use the vanity mirror in her car.

“I didn’t expect you to go for anything quite so drastic.”

“As they say: in for a penny, in for a pound.”

“You know, you  _actually_  look like you were born in the last century now. Abbie’ll be surprised. Glad you kept the beard, though.”

His grin was so smug, Jenny would have been happy to wipe it off anyone else’s face. But even  _she_  had to admit it was a damn good face—and her sister would kill her if she hurt him, even if he’d deserved it a little. 

* * *

 

Abbie hadn’t seen Ichabod for four days. She’d told herself she was giving him space to take a breather, figure things out. Everything had been tense in the two weeks after her journey to 1781 and Henry and Katrina’s deaths. Tense and intense.

But Abbie knew that as he came out of his immediate grief, they would need to navigate their relationship under new rules. And she was actively avoiding it.

Katrina had been as much an excuse for her as for Ichabod. As Abbie’s feelings grew for him, she could always buck up, remind herself that he was married—albeit to a woman Abbie could not understand  _at all_ —and that if he valued his marriage as highly as he said he did, well, Abbie would value it, too. It was an easy way to shake away the “what ifs” and push forward.

All until he saved her life  _twice_ in the span of ten minutes, fighting against Katrina in two centuries to ensure that she, that  _they_ , had a future. Those “what ifs” came raging back to life. God was she sick of apparently dead things getting resurrected.

Frankly, it was a little much.

She suspected that Jenny coming by with “something” involved her partner. She waffled on whether she should change out of her stinky yoga clothes and unwrap her hair and put the empty takeout containers in the garbage or just let them all deal with it. Her home, her rules. Crane rarely came over here, but she was glad it was still sort of neutral territory. 

No ghosts.

* * *

 

“So.” Jenny threw the car into park.

“So, indeed.”

“What’s the game plan, then? Drop you off? Walk you in? Stay? Get a mysterious booty call in half an hour?”

“ _Miss Jenny,_ I do not need to know what you get up to on your own time. And there is no ‘game plan,’ as you call it. Must I remind you that coming over to your sister’s was  _your_ idea?”

Jenny sighed and leaned her head against the steering wheel. For such a brilliant person, he could be so  _thick._  “I haven’t heard you complain once all afternoon. Which must be a record. You  _cannot_  tell me that you didn’t intend to find yourself here.”

“Fine, I shall go by myself.”

“Good.”

“Well.”

“ _Go._ ”

* * *

“Lieutenant.”

 _Oh my God._ Abbie was pretty sure her mouth was open. She’d seen him in a military uniform, in sweatpants, pajamas, very, very briefly in modern trousers, a towel once or twice. Good memories, those. But this was unprecedented. And completely unexpected.

“Holy shit, Crane,” she laughed out. What else could she do?

He gave her a formal bow, straight out of 1781. This was just too disconcerting.

“Okay, no, cut that shit out. This is too fucking weird.” Weird. Wrong. Annoying. Stupid. Confusing. Arousing? And he just stood there looking a little cocky, a little fidgety, and more than a little hot in a totally not-a-250-year-old-time-traveler kind of way. This was a 180 out of costume drama territory and into … well, not that. “Seriously. My brain cannot even process this right now.”

“Given your previous attempts to get me into  _skinny jeans,_ Miss Mills, I had thought you would appreciate the effort.”

Yeah, she appreciated the effort. Which is exactly what she did not want to be doing. “Just … just don’t talk. Too weird. Did Jenny leave you here? Does that mean I have to drive you home?”

If he was irritated by her reaction, he didn’t show it.

The tiny suspicion that a demon was trying to tempt her with some sort of weird Crane-copy disappeared when he raised an eyebrow in the most Crane-like way possible. “I was hoping you’d allow me the pleasure of your company. Jenny informed me that  _the Netflix_ might be involved in your plans for the evening.”

She had to laugh. She simply couldn’t help it; he knew perfectly damn well that it was “Netflix” not “ _the_  Netflix.”  _You can do this Grace Abigail Mills_ , she told herself. She had missed him. And this new effort was really something else altogether.

“Yeah, fine. Okay.”

She moved out of the doorway to let him in past her. As he walked into her living room, she tried to sneak a peek at his bum. The amused quirk of his lips when her eyes reached his face indicated he knew exactly where she’d been looking.

* * *

Halfway through their second episode, Abbie got up to make tea. As she rounded the sofa, she let her nails drag along the back and hesitated just slightly behind Ichabod’s shoulder. Her hand committed her to the action before her brain really did, and the muscles in his neck visibly tensed as her fingers slid into the soft, newly shorn hair on the back of his head.

“Why now?” she asked softly.

He turned into the touch to look up into her face. “It was time, Abbie.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things take a slight detour toward the serious (as they must)

“Sorry about earlier.” Abbie withdrew her hand from Ichabod—Crane—, needing to get some distance, and turned to make her way to the kitchen. “I knew Jenny was up to something, but I wasn’t really expecting company. Or, you know, you going all 21st century on me.”

“There is no need for apology, Lieutenant. I’m sorry to _drop by,_ as you say _,_ unannounced _._ It was very rude of me. Jenny may have encouraged me a bit overmuch.”

Did he know that look of contrition pressed on her sternum, gently squeezing her heart and lungs and throat? She definitely did not want him getting the idea that she didn’t want him there. Well, she didn’t. But not for the reasons he may have thought.

“You’re always welcome in my home, Crane.” As she put water in the kettle, she shot a small smile in his direction.

“I am glad of it.”

“So.” She pulled out two police academy mugs. “What tea would you like? Black? Herbal?”

“What do you have?”

“Sleepytime, Constant Comment, Zesty Afternoon, Earl Grey …”

“Those names mean absolutely nothing to me. Tea should be named by its origin, not by some marketeer.”

“Fine. Come have a look yourself, then.”

He crossed the room quickly on long legs. He pushed in by her side, standing at the corner cabinet, nudging her over to get a better look at the shelf. Their shoulders brushed. Was this new or had they been so casually intimate, without any respect for one another’s personal space? Felt new. Oh, so new. Just like the tiny spark that ran up Abbie's spine.

After a few moments of further rifling, he took an open box down and brought it to his nose. “My God, this is what you call tea in this century?”

“You can take it up with Mr. Bigelow. I’m a coffee girl.” She pushed off the counter to cross behind him and pour their water into the mugs.

“ _No_ to the lemon ginger and whatever is in this horrid red box, too, that smells of rotten citrus fruit.”

Abbie laughed. “Point taken. Chamomile?”

“At least some sanity remains in the modern world.”

She rolled her eyes at him. He’d had chamomile plenty of times. Including at _Starbucks_. “Hand me two bags?”

They stood at angles in her kitchen, both in stocking-ed feet, while Abbie dunked the tea bags and Crane nosed through her cabinet, huffing indignantly as he read the labels on the boxes of tea.

* * *

“Jenny told me Frank is trying to reconcile with Cynthia. She’s pretty beat up about it.”

The TV was now off, not just paused. They sat next to one another at the barstools on the outside of the counter, gripping mugs of tea as they cooled.

“Oh?” Interest and intent raised his eyebrows. “I thought your sister was pursuing other _options._ ”

“You mean Hawley? Look, Jenny and Hawley had a past, but she is so over that. Whatever, she’s too good for him, anyway.”

“Has she been _forward_ with Captain Irving?”

“You mean, like, told him about her feelings? I have no idea. But she respects his family too much to do anything that might hurt them. Him. They’ve all had a tough time.”

You mean, _no, the Mills sisters aren’t homewreckers. Jesus, Crane_. But she wasn’t going to state the obvious.

“Yes, they have.”

“When you went back to my time, did I,” he ventured, putting down his mug, and staring at some point behind her head, “Lieutenant, in your estimation, did I seem to be in love with Katrina?”

Abbie opened her mouth to speak—to deny it was her business—but he held up a finger to silence her before continuing.

“Let me explain. We’ve talked about your trip to the past, but you have been curiously circumspect about your observations about our marriage. I can remember everything from then, from before, so clearly, but my feelings are rather jumbled. A lot has happened since. A reminder would be helpful.”

“Look, Crane, I never even saw Katrina in 1781. I have no idea what things were like between you two. But I don’t know. You seemed … less enchanted? More practical when it came to her. You believed me a hell of a lot quicker than I expected you to. It got me thinking, you know. That something was _wrong_ between you.” She shook her head. “Grace mentioned something while we were preparing to reverse the traveler’s spell … when we explained Katrina’s actions, she said to me, ‘I see the spell has been broken now.’ Maybe she meant it literally?”

“It has been strange, since her death. I think fondly of our time together in the past, and feel sorrow for the things she endured in this time at Abraham hands, at our son’s hands, but it’s like a veil has been lifted.”

“Do you really think she did something to you?”

“I’ve no doubt anymore. In these past days, I have been doing more research on the Grand Grimoire. There are spells—”

“That make people fall in love with you?”

“No, apparently, that is even harder than resurrecting the dead and traveling through time. No, there are spells that obscure the true nature of things. Katrina told me about a version of such a spell that Henry cast so she could not see Moloch for who he was. As I said, I do not doubt anymore that Katrina used a similar spell on me.”

This was the most level-headed he’d been about Katrina since 1781.

“Why would she do that? Do you think she was working against us the whole time?”

“I fear it may have been something much more mundane than our victory in this war. Katrina was always motivated by small feelings. Look at what she did to poor Mary … and for what?”

The edge of anger was clear in his voice.

“What do you mean?” Abbie could almost hear the proverbial other shoe dropping.

“I believe my petty wife was merely jealous. And risked all of our work, the entire future of the world, of humanity, for it.”

Long since burned out of irritation—rage, really—for Katrina’s bullshit, Abbie simply nodded and reached for the fingers Ichabod was flexing against his thigh.  

“You don’t have to say it, Crane.” Whatever “it” was, he was obviously gearing up for it. “I know our modern woo-woo feelings talk is a tough adjustment. Hell, in whatever century, most guys I know would run far, far away from any conversation like this.”

“No, I will not be a coward in your presence, not for all of the strength you have shown to me.” He shifted their hands so hers was now in his grip. “I was _wrong._ I hurt you because I was _wrong._ You have always been the arrow that flies true, and my inconstancy nearly caused your death. It did put you in a cruel danger that is utterly unforgivable.”

He gently placed her hand back in her own lap and stood, moving toward the front door and the sneakers he’d found _somewhere._

“I should be getting back home. I do not want to burden you any further, and I should not be asking you to drive me back to the cabin, but—”

“ _Stop._ Look, was I frustrated with Katrina? Sure. But her actions are not your fault, so stop shouldering the blame. Do I wish you’d listened to me? Yeah. But I get it. When you’re thrown out of your own time, you want what’s familiar. You’ll do anything for it. It drives you.”

“The fact remains that I betrayed your trust.”

She shook her head at his mule-headedness and slid off her stool to stand and face him directly. “We,” she gestured between the two of them, “Are a team. Our bond is stronger than any of this, and we know that now, right? And let me tell you, battling all the demons of Hell seems like a cakewalk compared to being captured as a runaway slave.”

He reached up to cup her cheek. She thought he was going to pull her into a hug, the way he did sometimes after battle—although less frequently in the past few months. Instead, he slid his fingers over the edge of her scarf, his pinky grazing her earlobe, and stooped to look her directly in the eyes, his face inches from hers.

 “You are a treasure, Abbie. A far greater treasure than any mortal man deserves, in this life or any other.” 


	4. Chapter 4

Abbie dropped her gaze, unable to bear the intensity of his.

“ _Abigail_ ,” Ichabod implored, sliding his fingers down her jaw to tilt her chin up, encouraging her to look north of the middle of his chest. “I’ve disappointed you so many times. I do not wish to disappoint you again.”

“Yeah, you have.” She gently pulled his arm down and found his hand, her face relaxing into a soft smile. “Come here.”

She moved him away from the exit and back to the sofa. He stiffened a bit, unsure, when she folded herself onto the cushions, trying to tug him down next to her. _Relax,_ Abbie wanted to say aloud—to herself and to Crane—and she felt a feathery relief when he followed her lead without further hesitation.

He threaded his fingers with hers. Apparently hand-holding was rapidly becoming a thing. “May I speak plainly?”

Warm panic washed through Abbie’s veins, heating the tops of her forearms and her shoulder blades. She was over-aware of herself, felt beyond knowing that what was happening here was _important._

“I know I was ready to leave just minutes ago, but with you … with you ….” He so rarely tripped over what to say, his arrogance and authority a shield against the present, it made Abbie even antsier. “I cannot bear this any longer. I let your sister bring me here, I asked her to, because I am too much a coward to act on my own. I don’t just want to face the Apocalypse with you. I want to face my life with you. But now I’ve changed my mind ….”

He trailed off when Abbie’s jaw tightened at the _but._ It was all she heard. She straightened her spine, readying herself for the other proverbial shoe to drop.

"What the _hell_?"

“No, no.” He squeezed her hand harder, crushing her fingers between his and beginning again. “I have not changed my mind about _you._ Never. No, I came to a decision these past few days. Although there were things that I knew how to do in my own time, I do not know how to do them in your time. Our time. So forgive my missteps.”

Abbie felt in her marrow the moment their wires uncrossed—the moment that what he was saying became bright and clear. The prickly panic in her limbs snaked inward to blossom out in her chest. She had, really, spent so much time policing her own feelings, focusing on their friendship, their Witness bond, Crane’s family, their individual losses, their mutual losses, that she hadn’t considered the possibility he _really_ wanted what he now seemed to be implying. Why he was _really_ here. Why he looked at her the way he did.

Her edginess crept into her voice. “Whoa, okay, Crane ….”

“I wished to court you, Miss Grace Abigail Mills, but I fear I still do not know how to be a proper suitor in your time. And I am not sure that I would be able.”

A tense beat passed between them, and Abbie drew in a deep breath. Ichabod remained still as a statue.

“Oh, damn it all to hell.” She rocked forward, levering herself up with sudden force applied to their joined hands and using her lean strength to close the distance between them, and pressed her lips to his.

It was short and dry but rough, and Abbie just as quickly relaxed back, pulling away, before either of them had the chance to soften it, make it something more.

Ichabod bumped his nose against hers, and it was his turn to let sharp caution color the timbre of his voice. “Miss Mills ….”

Abbie sat back on her heels. “I need to get this straight. All of it. Before we do _anything_ else.”

“Of course, my apologies for being so forward.”

“Nope. Nope. You are not apologizing for any of this. I literally have no energy for that. I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer. Clearly and directly. I am in no mood to hear a lecture on colonial courtship rituals or your complaints about the 21st century.”

He only nodded.

“Okay. First, you let Jenny give you a makeover. Jenny loves doing shit like that. You can’t imagine the efforts she’s made to get me to wear skirts. But why?”

He ran a hand through his hair, something Abbie had never, ever seen him do before in the two years she’d known him. A new habit telegraphing his uncertainty. And she could see his arm muscles flex beneath the sleeve of his sweater, which was also new—and damn sexy. “It was rather rash.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. But it’s all way more jarring than your normal look at this point. The only really weird thing is when you wear that wool coat in June.”

“I truly did not think you would want to be seen romantically attached to the ‘Overly Committed Re-enactor’ and that that would present an insurmountable barrier to … us.”

She laughed. “Right, I have a real reputation to uphold here. Oh my God, everyone in this damn town thinks we’re together anyway. You cannot think I am embarrassed of you at this point.”

“I can’t cling to the past forever.”

“True, but what you hold onto is up to you. Which brings me to question number two:  you need to spell out for me what you meant by ‘I wished to court you.’ Because I hear a past tense there.”

He smirked and tried very inconspicuously to adjust himself as he switched positions on the sofa. “That was not a question.”

“Crane.”

He traced a finger over her knee, and ran the pad down her shin. “Courtship is, was, about both getting to know a potential wife and demonstrating to her that you would be a good husband. You might associate that with care and thoughtfulness, but the efforts that made up courtship were an attempt to demonstrate one’s fitness as a husband. Notably, one’s financial fitness.”

She felt so much for him then she rescued him from needing to say it. “But we already know one another as well as any two people can. And I’m _still_ paying your bills.”

“More or less.” They both let the topic go for the moment; she’d never failed in her generosity, and, in her mind, he’d more than repaid her support in the ways that he’d been able. “Traditional courtship seems rather beside the point.”

“Which means you want me to take the lead here? Is that it?”

“Abbie, my treasure, I know very well _what_ to do. I am just unsure of the proper order. And I most assuredly do not want to pass by anything you might want.”

“I wouldn’t mind flowers every once in a while, you know.”

“Consider it done.”

She imagined she’d have fresh flowers every other day now until she forced him to stop.

“I don’t have any expectations here, Ichabod.” His eyes brightened at the use of his Christian name. “I’m not afraid anymore. We’ll forge our own fate, right? We haven’t needed blueprints before, you know? Why would we need them now?”

“You are most correct, Lieutenant. As long as we are making this up as we go along, do you consent to another kiss? As delightful as the prior was, I do not believe it was satisfactory.”


	5. Chapter 5

Okay, he knew what he was doing. Abbie had in her mind Ichabod would be _too_ gentlemanly; she’d seen him and Katrina together, and they hadn’t exactly been emitting sparks.

“ _Crane._ We need to—” She gasped as he dragged his teeth along her collarbone. “Seriously. Ichabod.”

“Do you wish for me to stop?” He asked against her hot skin. 

She fisted her fingers into his hair, fleetingly grateful he hadn’t cut it _too_ short, and pulled him back, away from her chest. “ _No,_ but maybe we should take it easy.” 

“I would apologize, but you asked that I not.”

She dropped her head back and sighed. “Oh my God. Look, I was not expecting this. Not that I haven’t thought about—”

He dug his fingers into her hips—thumbs dangerously poised on her thighs—and raised an eyebrow. “You’ve thought about this, about us?”

“Yeah, of course. Haven’t you?”

“With extraordinary detail, Lieutenant, although the wonder of your beauty in the flesh far surpasses any pale image my mind could conjure.”

 _This_ was interesting. And a welcome delay of game, despite how much she wanted him and the pleasant, growing throb between her legs. She tried to scoot herself back, toward his knees, but he held her fast on his lap. 

“I want to enjoy the ride. We’ve … I just don’t want to fuck you on my couch like a teenager.” She trailed a hand down his neck and over his chest. “I mean, I _do._ But there’s no going back once this happens, you know?”

“I believe I have made my intentions toward you clear in this matter.”

 _Courting … wife … fitness as a husband. Shit._ “Crane, you’re _not …_ ”

“Not today. Someday. And I shall gladly offer myself to you in any way that you will have me.” 

Her heart swelled with affection for him and she couldn’t help but just _grin—_ probably stupidly—at the hopeful, open look on his face, bright blue eyes shining and dark just inches from hers.

“And, I confess that a quick _romp_ on your living room furniture is not what I had in mind for our initial coupling, either.”

“Tell me.” He’d loosened his grip on her enough to let her swing back onto the couch and settle in next to him, putting some space between them. Trying to cool off, even a little.

“What?”

“Tell me what you had in mind. What you’ve fantasized about.”

Ichabod danced his fingers across the seam of the cushion between them.

“Hey, if you don’t want to …”

“No. I am merely thinking. I confess that I am not sure where to begin. With the dreams I had of tasting your honeyed lips and the soft mounds of your breasts? Learning the curves and planes of your body, committing to memory to revisit over and over? Or feeling you wet and aflame and ready to take me inside you?”

She nearly moaned and swallowed it just in time. _Wet and aflame is right._

“Or, Lieutenant,” he continued, voice now a rumble that vibrated to her core. “Or should I divulge to you my ardent desire to bend you over that low desk in the archives and take you from behind? How I wanted you to yelp like some wild thing with my tongue curling on your cunt? Or, perhaps, you would like to hear of the many times I wished, on long nights of research, to simply watch your exquisite face as I brought to you _la petite mort—_ ”

Abbie gave a low whistle and shook her head. “Damn.”

“And here I had thought that my monologues usually _bore_ you, Miss Mills.” He looked down at her sidelong, the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement.

“That’s because they’re usually on boring ass subjects, like George Washington’s stamp collection, not … _wow._ ”

“General Washington did _not_ have a stamp collection, as the postage stamps to which you refer were not invented until the 19th century.”

They sat in charged silence for a moment. She was _really_ worked up, mention of boner-killer slave-holder or no, although they weren’t even touching, and the dirty talk—which was normally not her thing at all—was whole new territory coming from him. Really hot, unexpected territory.

She had to fight to keep her hands off her own body, to keep from crawling back onto him. So she would give as good as she got.

“I remember the first time wondering what your beard would feel like on my thighs,” she whispered, reaching up to untie the scarf wrapped around her head so she had something to do with her hands. “Wondering if you did that, ate women out in the 18th century. Guess I got the answer to that question.” 

“Indeed.” His fingers started to work the edge of the couch again.

“I tried really hard to not think about your hands, what it would do to me to be the sole focus of your attention, how we’d _fit_. You were _married,_ for God’s sake. I’ll be damned, though, these last few weeks ….”

They shifted at the same time, in almost comical unison, Abbie trying to find pressure, him trying clearly to relieve it. It was just enough to break the spell of the game.

“Okay, _fuck this._ It’s never going to be perfect.” She bounced up and headed briskly toward her bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower—and I want to find you in my bed when I’m done. Be ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and I need to gender my French correctly. Fixed! Ugh.


	6. Chapter 6

Abbie didn’t make it into the bathroom. His lips were on her neck, on the sensitive spot just below her ear, before she was halfway down the hallway.

*****

 “Ichabod,” she gasped into his mouth as he pressed her against the doorframe.

 A shower, a nice bra, a little bit of lotion … well, none of it was going to happen. Here was this man, barreling into her work, her life, her space— _and, oh God, under her shirt_ —and unapologetically dismantling all of her most ingrained habits. Dismantling her very way of being, if she were honest.

Impulsive, emotional, demanding. Arrogant as fuck. She should probably have been used to it by now.

(Nevermind he was also charming, loyal, funny, brilliant, and a whole host of other things. Including, she was quickly discovering, not too bad with his lips, either.)

He moved his attentions from her breasts and her hardened nipples to test the waistband of her yoga pants. With a slow, wicked look, he pulled back from her just enough to meet her eyes. “I am now ever more grateful that the modern world has liberated women from corsets and petticoats.”

“Spandex _is_ one of mankind’s greatest inventions. Makes all kinds of things possible.”

He grinned down at her, and slid his hands back from her hips and over her ass.

“You can only imagine the times that such a material has driven me to great distraction, Lieutenant.” He squeezed her firmly. “Often at the most inopportune moments.”

“Huh, I’ve _never_ noticed.”

“No?” He questioned and suddenly hoisted her up, coaxing her legs to wrap around him and backing her into the bedroom, warm fingers digging into her flesh so, so close to where she wanted them.

Not sure about where he was going with this, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders to hold steady.

Only to be dumped right onto her bed.

He froze over her. He was as rumpled as she imagined herself to be, sleeves pushed up to reveal the corded muscles in his wrists and forearms, hem folded up a little funny at the waist, belt buckle askew, and his expression ….

Before he could spring back into action, she did, grasping him by the belt loops and dragging him toward her so he stood between her legs.

“What I said about _your_ normal clothes earlier?” She unhooked his belt and began working at the buttons on his jeans. She kept her eyes focused on her task. “I take it back. _These_ I can handle. Not so sure about those damn breeches.”

Gently lifting her chin, he chided her, “Perhaps it is your generation that ought to remember that patience is a virtue. Or, perhaps, just you?”

“Ichabod, you are literally the most impatient man I’ve ever met. Shut up.”

“As my treasure wishes.”

She shoved the stiff, new denim over his hips, indulging in _just a bit_ of roughness—wanting to punish him _just a bit_ for his teasing—and allowing herself a good, long look.

“Okay … I guess I get why you hated skinny jeans.”

He reached down and drew one of her hands up to cup him through his thin knit underwear. “Does this appear adequate to you, then, Miss Mills?"

She responded with a firm squeeze to his hardening length. “You and your damn ego.”

*****

“Abbie, oh my,” he panted. She felt his voice rumble through his torso, under her open mouth. “No, no, you must stop … _no._ ”

“Is that a ‘no no’ or a ‘yes no’?” She pressed the heel of her palm against his cock.

He grunted. “You should not … you should not … this will all be over much too quickly if you do what I believe you intend.”

“Fine.” His tense abdominal muscles visibly relaxed at her words and she climbed back up his body. “Next time.”

Ichabod tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Promising a next time so soon? I have not yet even touched you properly. We still have a great deal of ground to cover.”

“Maybe you should get on that.”

"Perhaps I shall."

With a small smirk, he took her challenge and flipped them over so he hovered above her. Abbie hadn’t expected this to be quite so athletic—not that she had expected it at all—but this was not the stiff, fumbling missionary-in-the-dark-and-under-the-sheets sex she had uncharitably imagined in order to keep her hopes in check. Fantasies were one thing, expectations were another. Yet here they were, _definitely_ keeping the lights _on._

She encouraged him as he kissed and sucked and nipped his way down her neck, into the hollow of her throat, and down between her breasts. His beard brushed one exposed nipple and she gasped at the new sensation, chased by an absurd, fleeting worry about remedying beard burn on her thighs.

He shifted again, and looked up at her.

“Your beauty surely counters all of the many horrors that we have so far encountered, and I can imagine no greater Heavenly reward. That you may be mine for even a moment is a fate that I shall not question.”

“Use that line on all the women?”

He huffed. “You can give me a little credit, at least.”

It had been a joke, but a horrifying thought wormed its way to her attention. Despite the fact he gazed in awe at her naked form, despite what he’d declared not even an hour ago—that he’d all but confessed he was in love with her and wanted to commit to her—he was entering a whole new world now, a world in which _she_ would likely be having to fight off other women with a stick. The colonial garb had kept most of them at a distance, a little too weirded out by all of it, regardless of his charm or his looks. Combined with his new-found status as a widower, he would have his pick of women—and maybe he just didn’t know it yet.

Why the _fuck_ was she putting all of her eggs in one basket?

He must have caught on to her shift in mood because he adopted a sharp look of concern. “Abbie, are you unwell?”

 _No._ She stamped down her doubt. He was here by choice. She was here by choice. They were having an amazing time, he was inches from her pussy, and she was wet. Very wet. “I’m fine. Just … yeah.”

“Trust me when I say I have a hard time believing it, as well. You are,” he added, running a single finger through her slick folds for the first time, “A temptress of the highest order, and if I did not know you were my fellow Witness, I would surely think you were the work of the Devil himself, sent to drive me mad with carnal need.”

Abbie laughed. “All right, Shakespeare. I am definitely not a demon, unless you know something I don’t.”

He quirked an eyebrow and after one beat of letting his intentions sink in, he was on her and in her. Two long fingers pressed inside, and he set immediately to circling his tongue around and around until _finally_ reaching her swollen clit. He tried--quite valiantly and skillfully--to draw out her ascent, but it didn’t work; in little time, she came hard and fast, nearly barking his name.

Another new thing.

*****

Abbie tried to keep thinking of it as "fucking"--it certainly deserved the label; they were aggressive, messy, and loud. But her heart was too full, too overflowing with affection for him, for that to be the whole of it.

As they moved together, she knew her face mirrored back the look she saw on his.

Still, she had to put her hand firmly over his mouth to keep him from saying it as he drove her to that last climax, knowing neither of them were really ready for the word to be spoken. They'd get there eventually.

*****

Abbie remained still for a few moments, catching her breath. She probably should have wanted to clean up, but didn’t really give a damn. Her muscles felt like jelly.

He was on his back, too, eyes closed, sweat drying across his chest and brow.

Abbie turned over onto her side and poked his shoulder.

“Hmm?”

When he didn’t open his eyes, she prodded him again.

“I am not ready for another round just yet, Lieutenant, although if you are _recharged,_ I am quite happy to watch.”

She filed that one away and shook her head. “Nope. Open your damn eyes.”

She held her small fist in front of him, eyebrows raised in invitation. He looked up at her, puzzled a moment, before he caught her meaning.

He bumped his fist against hers—and when he drew it back, spread his fingers out and mouthed, “ _Boom_.”

She laughed lightly. “That good, huh?”

“As in all things, Abbie, you are most talented.” He scooped her up and held her fast against him. “I believe we have much to which we can look forward.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, I had a tough time with this chapter! But we've made it to the conclusion. Yay!


End file.
